Photo Coyote
Yet another version of an ordinary reality.

When I get sick and have to lie in bed for several days at a time, I usually end up taking self portraits to help assuage the boredom factor. I use a little, lightweight point-and-shoot camera so my illness-weakened arm can handle the strain of being repeatedly held up in the air.

For this particular shot, since I looked pretty horrible at the time, I overexposed the image to make my flu-face imperfections disappear. The window by my bed provided the extra light I needed to get the super-pale effect I was hoping for. I never know how this type of image will turn out.

SimpleMomReviews is giving away an Epiphanie camera bag! Be still my photography lover’s heart! These bags are gorgeous, and like none I’ve seen before, anywhere. Delicious colors, designer styles. You have to check them out. The bonus? Right now, SimpleMomReviews has 10 other giveaways in progress. Like I always say, awesomesauce!

Apologies to all you insectophobes. This is what I do. It’s why there’s a Photo in Photo Coyote. If you can override your fear factor (they’re only images after all), you might discover a new found sense of wonder. Bugs are fascinating and magical. They changed my way of looking at the world.

This slide show looks MUCH cooler here. Either way, just click the little triangle to start ‘er up.

A couple years ago, I bought this awesome Spider-Man action figure at a garage sale. The little boy who was selling it only wanted 50¢ for it, but I gave him a dollar. And, as it turns out, its worth is invaluable.

I keep good ol’ Spider-Man in my satchel and carry him everywhere I go. The reason I do so is because there are a lot of bored children in the world, who would otherwise create a nuisance of themselves were it not for Spider-Man To The Rescue.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stood in the checkout line at the grocery store, either in front of or behind a poor little kid who has been forced to suffer through god knows how many minutes of shopping while most likely starving to death or in need of a nap. Reaching into my satchel and handing them Spider-Man has never failed to quiet them and keep them entertained for what seems like an eternity. Happy kid, happy parent, happy me, happy fellow customers. It doesn’t take rocket science to figure this out, folks. (AHEM parents.)

Spider-Man’s greatest feat so far has been to keep a sweet but very active little girl occupied in a courtroom while her mother (and a bunch of the rest of us) waited for our cases to be heard. I was there to hold the hand of a friend who needed support, and in front of me sat a darling little girl who was doing her best to sit still, but her mom kept shushing her and telling her to stay put. Did the mom bring along anything to keep her daughter entertained? No, she did not. Can you say inconsiderate? Get a clue, mom!

I was MORE than happy to relinquish Spider-Man into the hands of yet another little sweetheart who was expected to behave like an adult. She was so thrilled, it was amazing! Spider-Man became her dancing partner, her baby, her fellow super hero, her confidant. 45 minutes of creative play that didn’t bother a soul. I love Spider-Man.

Anyway, this picture was taken at the train station in Everett, Washington while my teenage daughter and I were waiting for her overdue train. I WAS BORED! So I pulled good ol’ Spider-Man out of my satchel and had him pose for my cell phone’s camera. My daughter, of course, was horrified. She practically begged me to put him away to quell her embarrassment. But, did I? No, indeed! Let her suffer. Spider-Man rules!

Earlier this month, 20 days ago to be precise, I unabashedly nominated myself for the Good Samaritan Award of 2008. “Por quoi?” you might inquire. And my pleased-as-punch, thoroughly immodest response would be, “Babysitting!” But, lo, not just your ordinary, garden variety babysitting. Oh, no. Nothing so unremarkable as that. This was an unselfish, unremunerated, beyond-the-call-of-duty variety of baby sitting. For my former boyfriend’s pets.

Lucky guy, he’d been invited to spend a decadent 4th of July weekend at the ocean with a bunch of his groovy pals. In spiffy accommodations, no less. Psyched by visions of party aplenty, his misguided brain slalomed into the Land Of Denial and foolishly deduced that the appropriate solution to any pyrotechnic related pet-panic in his absence was to enlist one of his neighbors to administer a tranquilizer to the dog, and to simply assume the cats would be okay. Ahem. Given my longstanding and affectionate relationship with said sentient beings, I offered to babysit them during the dark and festive hours of our nation’s celebration of independence.

I arrived at Former Beau’s residence at dusk, figuring I’d get an hour’s head-start on the patriotic noise making. Silly me. When I pulled in the driveway, the neighborhood sounded like a firing range. I first sensed something was wrong when the master’s dog didn’t catapult out of the house through the pet door to engage in her usual bark-fest frenzy when yet another rabid and potentially life threatening guest arrives. Instead, I found her shivering underneath the kitchen table, a very odd locale, as her never wavering habituation is lying in the master’s walk-in closet whenever he’s away. With her head resting on a pair of his dirty underwear.

Something’s Amiss #2 became apparent when the cats made no attempt to disguise the fact that they were Very Pleased To See Me. Ordinarily, they may or may not casually investigate new arrivals to see if they can covertly elicit a serving of free love from friendly fingertips. The feline code of honor requires them to pretend that affection doesn’t really matter to them, but, the Royal We knows better. It’s what kitties’ dreams are made of.

I soon found myself engulfed in a rapidly accelerating cyclone of tails, toes and tongues, as a plethora of half-crazed, furry whirlers vocalized gratitude and delight at having a loving human in their midst who could protect them from The Evildoers. Attempting to calm them, I behaved as if nothing was out of the ordinary, and blathered a stream of cloying sentiments while portioning out hit-or-miss back scratches to the domesticated dervish. It was then that I realized I needed to pee. A lot.

Velcroed to my pant legs, the dervish proceeded to accompany me as I gracefully lurched and galumphed across the living room floor, up the stairs, and into the suddenly very crowded master bathroom. It wasn’t so much the unusually claustrophobic conditions that created the awkward scenario for actually utilizing the commode. It was the multiple pairs of adoring and attentive eyes, observing my every move and loyally promising to never again let me out of their sights.

I was reminded of my days of young motherhood, when I lived in a small cabin with no bathroom door. My kids were ever so young, and the most harrowing experience of their existence occurred whenever The Mom God was invisible, even for a nanosecond. Thus, they religiously accompanied me evvvvvvvvvverywhere. The silver lining of that adorable little cloud is that by observing my activities in the bathroom, they quite readily grokked the concept of potty training. And, as any parent will attest, this is a very good thing. Not so very good was the stellar occasion when, while wandering the aisles of our local grocery store, my toddler son excitedly exclaimed – for the entirety of the store to hear – “Mom! Look! O.B. tampons! You put those in your crotch!” Looking back, I wasn’t nearly as embarrassed at the time as I am while recounting the story. Sigh….. the good ol’ days.

Thankfully, dogs and cats do not talk, nor do they accompany me to the feminine hygiene aisle of the grocery store. Thus, my former boyfriend will forever remain unenlightened to the well attended powder room frivolities I engaged in on that fateful 4th of July night. And the only thing his abandoned animals will remember is how I loved and comforted them and dished out extra ear noogies until the celebratory cacophony of late night booms and bursts became a vague background noise in their reality of the moment. That, plus the shots of Tequila I poured into their welcoming mouths while we played poker and ate buttered-drenched popcorn on the absent master’s bed.